


on rocks and lambs

by camellialice



Series: hitman AU [2]
Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, sometimes one does not mean to write a sequel but it just happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21554029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camellialice/pseuds/camellialice
Summary: Theo and Boris (and Popchyk) run away together. It turns out that the running was the easiest part.or: two men and their immortal gay dog take Europe
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Series: hitman AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553299
Comments: 13
Kudos: 173





	on rocks and lambs

**Author's Note:**

> This may not make any sense at all without reading [the first part](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21418618)!

The phone rings four times before Theo’s call is answered.

“Halo?” 

“Boris?”

“Potter?” His voice is more focused now, as if he’s already sensed Theo’s panic. “What is it?”

“I can’t do this,” Theo whispers, and his voice breaks. “I’m going home.”

“Potter! Potter. Breathe. _Nabierać tchu_. Everything is okay. Is not that hard.”

“Yes, it is,” Theo hisses into his phone. “I don’t fucking speak Greek, Boris! I can’t read any of these labels!”

“There is no matter what brand you buy! Popchyk is not picky. Tuesday he ate entire block of cheese.”

“Yes, and I was the one who cleaned it up, and I’m not doing that again,” Theo insists. “Besides, he needs nutrients. Or vitamins. Something. At home I always just bought what the vet recommended.”

“Potter. Look at the pictures on bags, pick one with dog most like Popchyk. What you buy is not important. All is dog food.”

“Okay,” Theo says quietly. Now that the panic is subsiding, he feels embarrassed. Thank god no one else is in this aisle.

“Also, buy more Pringles please?”

“We had a full can when I left.”

“Was hungry, not my fault. Paprika flavor, please!”

“Fine,” Theo sighs. “I’ll be home soon.”

He hangs up and he forces himself to breathe, in, out, like Boris said. Then he squares his shoulders like he didn’t just have a panic attack in the fucking MyMarket and grabs a bag of dog food.

It’s not like he thought it would be easy, being on the lam. He just hadn’t realized quite how hard it would be.

“On the lam” — he’d said that out loud once, and Boris had laughed hysterically at it.

“What does this mean?” Boris had asked, choking out the question between wheezes.

“Like, on the run,” Theo had tried to explain. “Running away.”

This only made Boris laugh harder. “On a sheep?”

“No, not like a _lamb_ , it’s, well, I don’t know what it is —”

“You won’t get anywhere fast if you ride on sheep, Potter.”

“It’s a phrase! People use it!”

Boris had wiped the tears from his face with the sleeve of his sweater and rolled his eyes. “Okay, Potter, if you say so.”

“Here, I’m looking it up — well, Google says it’s a verb, that can’t be right —”

“Like, you lam away? Together we lam?”

“Well, no, it means, like, to hit something, it says.”

“You are sure you are not shitting me?” Boris asked.

“Yes! Okay, right under there, _lam_ , noun, in flight, like on the lam. See?” He’d held his phone up for Boris to see, but Boris remained skeptical.

“It only means this one thing?”

“Well, yeah. Look, it says it’s from the late 19th century.”

“This is nothing. Maybe they meant lamb the sheep and forgot spelling.”

“Why the _fuck_ would they mean lamb the sheep, Boris?”

Boris starts giggling again. “Maybe all they had was sheep to run away on!”

Theo had whacked him with a pillow.

They’d gone to Amsterdam for a while, and then Berlin for exactly one day, and now they’re in Athens, hiding out until the dust settles from Berlin. They’ve been here for a week and a half already and it’s unclear how long they’ll have to stay. Boris says he’s waiting to hear from someone. So here they are, waiting.

Theo likes Athens, mostly. He’s not sure how he feels about the city itself: he finds the graffiti distasteful, the streets grimy, the general energy of the city anxiety-provoking. But he loves the ancient sites, the museums, the monuments.

Boris is the opposite. He loves the city, seems energized by it. He laughs at the graffiti and takes pictures with it and will happily sit outside a cafe for hours with Popper’s leash tied to his chair, smoking and drinking and talking to old Greek men. But Theo had taken him to the Acropolis and Boris had complained the whole time — it was too sunny, too dusty, too windy, too loud, too many tourists crowded together and crawling around.

“It’s the birthplace of civilization,” Theo had argued, unable to see how Boris was _not_ impressed.

“What civilization?” Boris had snapped. “Whose? This is just rocks, Potter. Everybody has rocks.”

It was an important lesson, in retrospect: leave Boris in the sun for more than an hour and he gets impossibly grumpy. And it’s not great for a man who used to kill people professionally to be grumpy, even if he is your boyfriend.

And it’s also important to love and appreciate your boyfriend, even when he doesn’t appreciate the Parthenon, even when he eats all the Pringles, even when he pisses off the wrong person and makes it so the two of you have to flee Berlin in the middle of the night. (Theo’s _not_ mad about that. He just thinks some things could have been handled differently, that’s all.)

So now they’re here in Athens. And they’re waiting. And it’s not the worst place to be, and it’s not the worst thing to have to wait, but it’s been a long week, and Theo doesn’t know how many more of these he has to look forward to.

He lets himself into the apartment they’re staying in and locks the door behind him. Popper rushes into the hall to meet him, claws scrambling against the tiled floor, and Boris follows quickly after.

“Potter,” he says with a grin. “You survived your journey!”

“Fuck you,” Theo says. “I was gone half an hour.”

“It was a long one,” Boris insists, wrapping his arms around Theo’s waist and nuzzling his nose against his collarbone. “Was waiting and missing you, and who knows what could have happened you at store, all these dog foods to choose from —”

Theo tries to twist away. “I have to put away the groceries, asshole.”

“No,” Boris whines, tightening his grip. “Was only joking. Do not be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Am not letting you go without kiss.”

“You’re a child,” Theo says, but Boris is already leaning up onto his toes and it only takes a slight dip of Theo’s head to give him a quick peck. Boris beams in triumph and releases him.

“You’re a _child_ ,” Theo reiterates and makes his way to the kitchen.

He starts unpacking the bag of groceries: perishables in the fridge, dry goods into the cabinet above the stove, dog food into the cabinet under the stove, the can of Pringles slammed onto the kitchen table with a rebuking glare. Boris accepts it with little exclamations of delight in Polish or Russian or another one of those (many, many) languages Theo needs to learn.

“Any news?” Theo asks, a reflex. There’s no news. There’s never any news.

Boris shakes his head. “Soon, I think, maybe,” he offers, but that’s what he said this time last week, and every day since.

They go out to dinner that night and have a delicious meal and many glasses of wine and stumble back to the apartment together, giggling under the street lamps.

It’s definitely not the _worst_ thing to be stuck here, with him. And really, it’s that last part that makes all the difference.

  
  


A few days later, Theo comes home and finds Boris sitting in the dark, barely illuminated by the faint light streaming in through the window. He already knows something is wrong, but he asks anyway, “Do you want a light?”

Boris is tapping his fingers against the desk and doesn’t answer, so Theo flicks on the light switch. He sees their suitcases packed and lined against the wall.

“Boris,” he asks slowly, “what’s going on?”

“We need to split up,” Boris says. He’s already wearing his coat, and he doesn’t look at Theo when he says it. A leaden weight forms in Theo’s chest and starts to expand, crushing his ribcage.

“Okay,” Theo says, as calmly as he can. “What the fuck, Boris?”

Boris runs a hand over his face. “Is for the best,” he sighs. “Will keep you safe.”

“I don’t want to be safe,” Theo replies, more heated than he wants, his voice rising despite his efforts. “I want to be with you.”

Boris grimaces. “I have things to settle —”

“So you’re leaving me? So what, it’s over? After everything —” Theo chokes, unable to finish. But Boris’ eyes widen and he leaps out of the chair to cross over to Theo.

“No! No, not like this, Theo, _nigdy_ , no,” he reassures him, pulling him into an embrace. “Not for long. Just a bit.”

Theo lets his chin rest on Boris’ shoulder, feels the solid warmth of Boris’ body against him. “Where are you going?” he asks.

“I think it is best if I do not tell you,” Boris admits. He pulls back and cradles Theo’s cheek with one hand. “But one week — give me one week and all will be settled. I promise you this.”

“I thought we were going to watch a movie tonight,” Theo says. It feels stupid, but Boris laughs.

“One week, then we watch every movie.” He leans up and kisses Theo, gently, firmly. Then he goes back to the desk and gathers some papers. “I leave tonight. Tomorrow, you go, 9 AM flight to Paris. There is place for you there, I have written here the address. When things are done I will come for you.”

“Can I call you?” Theo asks. “In Paris?”

Boris frowns. “Best if not, I think,” he says, and his voice sounds pained. He turns to get his suitcase and Theo grabs him by the wrist.

“Hey,” Theo says, “I love you.”

Boris smiles. “I know.”

“C’mon.”

“I love you too, Potter, you know this. Where is Popchyk?” Popper responds immediately, jumping off the couch and padding over to him, and Boris crouches down to muss his fur. “ _Też cię kocham._ ”

“Will you be safe?” Theo asks.

Boris shoots him a lopsided grin. “Always I am safe.”

“You got shot two months ago,” Theo reminds him. “And in Berlin you —”

Boris shushes him. “No need to bring up again Berlin! Past is past.” He kisses his fingers and presses them to Popchyk’s nose.

Theo sighs in frustration. “If you go off and die while I’m stuck waiting for you in Paris, I’ll be so fucking mad, Boris.”

Boris rises and shrugs. “Will do my best,” he says, teasing. He slings his bag over one shoulder and slides up the handle of his suitcase.

“One week,” Theo repeats, “and if you’re not back by then, I’m going home, I’m not waiting for you like some war widow.”

“Of course not,” Boris agrees, smiling, and he takes Theo’s face in his hands and kisses him. Theo melts into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Boris, as if he could hold him here and make him stay forever.

“Boris,” he whispers, but he doesn’t know how to finish, what to say, what to ask for. He presses his forehead to Boris’ and squeezes his eyes shut.

“I leave with you my whole heart,” Boris promises, “and Popchyk too.”

He kisses Theo one last time and then he leaves.

  
  


Theo wakes up alone the next morning, and he flies to Paris alone, and he follows Boris’ directions to a second floor flat in the 3rd Arrondissement. He doesn’t bother to unpack, just throws his suitcase on the floor of the bedroom. He’s not going to settle in here.

He sprawls on the couch and pulls Popper onto his chest, feels the comforting dog-weight against his ribcage. He remembers a time when he could sit with Popper and feel perfectly content, when Popper’s company was enough for him. Lots of things have changed since then.

Boris should be here, Boris should be taking up more than his fair share of the couch, Boris should be insisting that they watch stupid cartoons on the TV. Boris should be eating all the snacks in the kitchen and riling up Popper with games of tug-of-war and laughing at Theo and making a general nuisance of himself.

What feels worst of all is waking up for the second morning in a row without him. Theo’s gotten used to the three of them piled together in bed, to having a sleepy Boris curled around him and a dog at his feet, to feeling Boris’ breath against his shoulder, to having to slap ice-cold toes away from his thighs. It occurs to him that he did not see Boris at all yesterday and will not see him today, and that until now he’s never actually had to be without Boris for this long. Since Boris thrust himself into Theo’s life he has been a steady presence, not necessarily reliable in every sense of the word but certainly always there, dropping by to visit _every_ night in New York and at Theo’s side every day since then. Theo’s never had to miss Boris before because Boris has never given him the chance. He doesn’t like it.

Theo goes to the Louvre because he can and he doesn’t even enjoy it. He walks through rooms full of the most gorgeous sculptures ever carved and all he can think of is Boris’ voice: _They’re just rocks, Potter, everybody has rocks._ Then he’s mad at Boris all over again for ruining the fucking _Louvre_ , of all things. He wishes he could call to yell at him about it.

It’s raining when he tries to leave, so he has to buy an absurdly overpriced umbrella from the gift shop. He grumbles all the way home as the water splashes the leather of his Oxfords. There’s no umbrella stand in the apartment, somehow, so he’s stuck awkwardly holding it in one hand while it drips on the floor and he tries to remove his soggy shoes with the other. This, in his defense, is why he is too distracted at first to notice the man in the kitchen.

His first thought is: _Boris_. But no, it’s a different dark haired, vaguely threatening, grungy-looking European man, sitting at the table and holding Popper. The man isn’t smiling and Popper is standing on his lap, his small body taut and nervous.

“Hello,” Theo says cautiously.

“Where is your boyfriend?” the man asks. No time for pleasantries, apparently.

“We split up.”

“Split up or broke up?” This is a good clarifying question. Theo wishes he’d thought of it in Athens.

It seems safest to stick to vague truths. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Hmm. I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t know how to convince you,” Theo counters. Living with and loving a hitman has gradually eroded most of his instincts of self-preservation. Situations like this are exactly why he shouldn’t have let that happen.

The man sighs. He reaches his hand down and loses his grip on Popper, and the dog leaps off his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind, because he’s still focused on Theo when he pulls out a gun. Theo instinctively flinches, but the man lifts his hands up the air in a gesture of surrender and gently sets it on the table. It’s not a surprise that he has a gun, but Theo still feels his stomach sink.

Theo knows he has no way to protect himself. There might be knives in some kitchen drawer, but he hadn’t bothered to check last night. He definitely doesn’t have a gun of his own. He’d asked for one, in Amsterdam, and Boris had stared at him like he’d grown an extra head.

“Why should you have gun?” he’d asked.

“To protect myself! If anything goes wrong.”

“If I give you gun,” Boris had reasoned, “everything will go wrong. What would you do with gun? Remember New York? You will kill me and Popper before you figure out aiming.”

“You could teach me,” Theo had argued, but Boris had shaken his head.

“Guns are no good,” he’d said. “No need to protect yourself. I will do this for you.”

 _Joke’s on you_ , Theo thinks. He’s definitely terrified right now, but he still feels a stab of petty vindication.

“I need you to make a phone call,” the man says, conversationally, like a 1950s businessman talking to his secretary. He gestures to the chair opposite him. “Sit, sit.”

Theo realizes he’s still holding the umbrella, so he leans it against the edge of the table and slides into the chair. It doesn’t seem like there are a lot of other options.

“I need you to call your boy,” the man says. “Tell him to come here.”

“He won’t answer.”

The man shrugs. “Leave a message.”

So Theo takes out his phone and unlocks it and lets his fingers hover over the icon of Boris’ face for a moment before the man twitches his hands towards the gun. Theo places the call, hears it ring four, five, six times before he hears Boris’ voice, pre-recorded and muffled: _I did not pick up because I do not want to talk. Do not leave message._ Theo waits for the beep.

“Hey babe,” he starts, trying not to flinch at the pet name, hoping it will unsettle Boris as well. “There’s a, um,”—he looks at the man, who nods—“friend here who wants to talk to you. Call me when you get this.” He hangs up and looks back up at the man. “He won’t call. And he won’t come either. He’s not stupid, he’ll know it’s a trap.”

The man shrugs again. “Of course he will know it’s a trap. But he will come anyway.”

“What do you want with him?” he asks, like he doesn’t know the answer, like there’s a chance the man might announce that he’s throwing a surprise birthday party.

“Lots of people want Pavlikovsky,” the man says. “Did you know this?”

Theo bites back a joke about Boris’ desirability and says nothing. 

The man leans forward. “You have heard of Lucius Reeve? Pavlikovsky caused a lot of trouble for him, took his money and fucked him around for months. Reeve wants compensation for this. I’m sure you can understand.”

Theo shrugs. He’s not going to agree that Reeve should be reimbursed because Boris saved Theo’s life.

“And now Reeve also says Pavlikovsky shot one of his men. Not badly, he is already recovering. But this man was hired to finish job he started, and Pavlikovsky shoots him to protect you the target, it does not look good. Definitely in poor taste.”

“There’s hitman etiquette?” Theo asks, before he can stop himself.

“There’s always etiquette. And then there is what happened in Berlin.”

“He got into a bar fight,” Theo says. “Wait, do you seriously want to kill him because of a bar fight?”

The man laughs, a deep, uncomfortable guffaw. “He told you he got into bar fight? You believed this was why you left Germany? I think your boyfriend has not been honest with you, Decker.”

Theo had believed it, to be honest. He remembers that night, Boris showing up with a scratch across his cheek and bruises on his ribs. He’d said something stupid in a bar, he told Theo, a dumb joke, and it had started a fight. And Theo had believed it because, well, there have been times _he’s_ wanted to punch Boris in a bar. And he’d also believed they had to go, because he trusted Boris, because where Boris went, he followed.

The man is eyeing him. “Reeve has a house in Berlin. Pavlikovsky broke in and got caught by security, bodyguards. Lucky Reeve himself was not there.”

The breaking and entering doesn’t bother Theo. That is, after all, the foundation of their relationship. But the lying, and the fact that Boris went after the man who wanted both of them dead, is definitely worrisome. He tries to keep his face still, to appear cool and unaffected. It’s not something he’s good at.

“Now,” the man says, “what do you think he was doing there, hmm?”

“How should I know?” Theo spits out. “He didn’t even tell me he was there.”

“I think he wanted something. I think your boy is a thief.”

“I told you,” Theo says through gritted teeth. “I don’t know where he is. I don’t know what you want from me.”

The man leans back in his chair, tapping his fingernails on the table, too close to the gun for Theo’s comfort. “All these people looking for Pavlikovsky,” he muses, “I think they are looking in wrong direction. I think all this trouble Pavlikovsky is causing is because of you. And I know that man was shot in your apartment, and I think you are the one who shot him.”

“Why me?” Theo asks.

The man smiles. “Terrible aim. Your boyfriend knows how to shoot.”

“I’m a furniture salesman,” Theo says. It’s the only defense he can think of.

“Do you want to know what I think, furniture salesman?”

“I thought you just told me.”

“I think you cause too many problems. But I think you are also a solution. I get you, the problems stop. And Pavlikovsky comes out of hiding, rushes to Paris, I get him too, and I get a lot of money for him. Two birds, one stone.”

It definitely makes sense. Theo can absolutely follow his logic. But he doesn’t like that it ends with something happening to him.

“He’s in a different country,” Theo points out. “Are you just going to wait here for him?”

The man shrugs. “If that is what it takes. You could make this easier for me, you know.”

“I don’t think I should.”

Theo glares at him. The man glares back. Theo reaches for the gun on the table.

In an instant the man’s hand has slammed onto his, pinning his arm.

“Bad move, Decker,” he says. “Not very smart of you.”

Theo is certain, in this moment, that he will not leave this apartment alive. He feels panic well up in his chest and he tries to replay in his mind the memory of Boris’ voice, telling him to breathe: _nabierać tchu_. The man is squeezing his wrist tighter and tighter and the gun is _just_ out of reach of his fingertips and he tries to inhale and exhale, think clearly, come up with _some_ kind of plan —

The umbrella is leaning against the table. Theo grabs it with his free hand and before he can think, before he can plan, he cracks the man over the head with it. His grip slackens and he slumps forward.

Theo stands and backs away from the table, knocking over his chair in the process. He barely has time to catch his breath and start a new panic attack when the door bursts open and there’s Boris, wild-eyed and disheveled. 

“Theo,” he asks, breathless, urgent. “You are okay?”

“Yeah!” Theo screeches, less composed than he wishes, and gestures to the man’s crumpled figure. “I think I’ve got everything pretty much under control here, thanks _very_ much—”

“There are no others? You are safe?”

“Yes, I’m fine, but what the _fuck_ , Boris —” 

Boris rushes over then and his hands are on Theo’s face like he’s checking for damage, and he leans in to kiss him but Theo grabs his wrists and holds him back.

“I called you like 15 minutes ago, Boris. How the fuck did you get here so fast?”

“Was in neighborhood. You think I would leave you unprotected? Is Popchyk okay?”

“He’s fine,” Theo says impatiently. “You’ve been here the whole fucking time? Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

“I thought you would be safer like this, not knowing,” Boris protests.

Theo gestures, once again, to the man at the table. “Good fucking job there. Great plan. Brilliant.”

“Okay,” Boris says, “but I am here now, no? To help?” 

“Yeah, five minutes too late!”

Boris peers at the man. “Is he dead? Please say no, is so inconvenient to have to dispose of body —”

“He’s not fucking dead, Boris,” Theo snaps, and then remembers that he hasn’t actually checked. But Boris is already there, sliding the gun out of the man’s hand and away from him, fingers on his pulse point.

“Okay, just sleeping,” Boris confirms.

Theo runs a hand through his hair and can’t even be bothered that he’s ruined the styling. “Boris, we need to talk.”

“Here?” Boris asks. “Now? Pack first, Potter, together we go to safe location —”

“No,” Theo says firmly. “We need to talk _now_. You lied to me.”

Boris sighs, uprights Theo’s chair, and sits in it. “I have explained this! Was trying to protect you.”

“Not just this. What happened in Berlin?”

Boris looks embarrassed now. “Why drag up what is past?”

Theo folds his arms. “Boris,” he says, “I love you, but I swear to god, if you don’t tell me what happened in Berlin, I’ll —”

“Okay, okay! Was looking for painting.”

“What painting?” Theo asks, before it dawns on him. “My painting?”

“Yes, of course your painting,” Boris says, voice soft. “You gave it up for me, I did not want you to lose it.”

Theo’s stunned. He hadn’t expected this. Popper reappears as if summoned by Boris’ voice and bounds up to him.

“Popchyk!” Boris exclaims, lifting him into his arms. “Am so glad to see you, _kochanie_.”

“You broke into Reeve’s house for the painting?” Theo asks, when his voice returns to him. “You were just going to steal it?”

Boris shrugs.

Theo groans. “Boris, I left it behind for a reason! Did you even have a plan? How were we going to get it out of Germany? What the fuck, Boris? Did you think about _anything_ before you broke into his house?”

“Was thinking about you,” Boris says softly.

“I’m not giving you points for that,” Theo scolds. “You could have been killed!”

“Not my best idea,” Boris admits. “So I have done better! This time, I called police.”

“ _What?_ ”

“An anonymous tip! Today they raid house, find Reeve has this stolen painting, it goes back to museum, he goes to jail. All fixed.” He grins up at Theo. “I told you would take care of it.”

“Okay,” Theo says, and turns back to the unconscious man. “What about this guy? What if others come for you?”

“I do not think this will happen,” Boris says. “Only Reeve wants me, and now Reeve is gone. Who will pay them?”

He sets Popper on the floor and stands, crossing over to Theo. He places his hand against Theo’s cheek.

“We are safe now,” he promises.

“Don’t you ever lie to me again,” Theo says.

“Okay. We have deal.”

Theo kisses him. Then he looks again at the third person in the room. “I think we should probably get out of here.”

“Yes,” Boris agrees. “Go pack. I will get Popchyk’s things.”

Theo goes into the bedroom where the suitcase is still lying open on the ground. It takes all of two minutes to throw his pajamas, dirty laundry, and toiletries inside and zip it up. He drags it into the kitchen to meet Boris.

“Where now?” he asks. “Belgium? Italy?”

“I think maybe we should get off the lamb,” Boris suggests.

Theo stares at him, then huffs out a surprised laugh.

“I mean it,” Boris insists. “We settle down. You, me, Popchyk.”

“That’s not how that phrase works, you fucking idiot,” Theo says, shaking his head. He takes Boris’ face in his hands and kisses him.

“New York,” Boris says, fingers still twisted in Theo’s hair. “We go home, we watch movie. What do you say?”

Theo can’t bite back the smile growing across his face. “Yeah, okay, whatever.”

Boris beams at him.

On the plane ride back to New York, Boris lets Theo pick the movie and then falls asleep on his shoulder. Theo sighs and smoothes Boris’ hair and looks out the window, at the clouds and the sea. He leans his head against Boris’ and closes his eyes as his breath ripples like gentle waves, in and out, steady and slow, even and calm.

**Author's Note:**

> did i think that i would write a sequel? no. did i think it would have any semblance of a plot? also no. will i ever stop roasting theodore decker? i'd sooner die
> 
> many thanks to all who commented on/liked part 1, I hope this holds up!!


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